


El Matador Del Mar

by Charming_the_Snake



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Historical, Armando Salazar - Freeform, Armando Salazar biography, Armando Salazar fanfiction, Armando Salazar history, Armando Salazar real life, Canon-Typical Violence, Dead Men Tell No Tales - Freeform, F/M, Fanfiction, Gen, I can't be the only one that was attracted to him, Movie: Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No Tales, Movies: Pirates of the Caribbean, Other, POTC fanfiction, Real Captain Salazar, Salazar - Freeform, Sexy Spanish Captain, The Caribbean, pirates of the caribbean - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-11-15 06:26:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11225199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charming_the_Snake/pseuds/Charming_the_Snake
Summary: AU, where the Silent Mary doesn't sink in the Devil's Triangle and her legendary captain Armando Salazar realizes he is plagued by a slightly different kind of curse. Although hailed across the Atlantic Ocean as a hero, he is haunted by the ghosts of piracy and cannot rest until he finally washes the Spanish Main clean in pirate blood. Could a chance meeting with a feisty troublemaker named Carina who is interested in science change things for the Capitan, his faithful crew and the pirates he swore he'd destroy?





	1. The Devil's Triangle

**Author's Note:**

> I fell in love with Capitan Salazar, so I just couldn't resist fantasizing about his past, and what he could've been in a world with a little less magic.  
> This story is based on history almost as much as it is on the movie. Salazar's story is rather loosely based on the biography of Admiral Blas de Lezo
> 
> I don't own any of the POTC characters. Not making money, just having fun :)  
> Hope you guys enjoy the story and feedback is always appreciated.

The almost horizontal rain laced his face cruelly and he tasted its salty bitterness deep in his parched throat. Heart pounding wildly and muscles cramping with strain, he held on to the helm of the “Maria Silenciosa”, forcing the lurched vessel to plow deep into the water and take the huge dark gray wave towering over her on the bow. The rudder bit deep into the torrent and the timbers groaned as the “Silent Mary” battled the wind and the current, facing a wall of water and then pierced it furiously. He shouted a warning to his men, locked one arm through the wheel and held on as the wave crashed down from its peak, flooding the deck with ice – cold water, trying to swallow the ship whole and take her down to the foamy abyss below.  
The bow soared out of the water, the timbers held and the “Maria Silenciosa” righted.  
Spitting out the bitter salty water and shaking with the effort to hold the wheel in his grasp, he commanded his men to adjust the jib sails and then squinted, trying to see past the churning waves, through the unending blur of darkness and into the horizon.  


Steering way and sea room. Those four little words were shining like lighthouses in the clear and focused coldness of his mind. Because they represent the two things the survival of a vessel in a storm depends on. The first one means the ship has to move forward with enough power to steer and keep its bow pointing into the waves to plow through them safely. Wind and waves will always try to turn the vessel, strike her side, roll her over and sink her. Pushing against them requires forward momentum. And as long as the jibs are well adjusted, the foremast holds and he is strong enough to man the helm, the “Silent Mary” will have all the power and agility she needs.  
As for the second, ‘sea room’, the term itself pretty much says it all. If she is to survive, the ship needs to maintain as safe a distance as possible from any reefs or shoals, or, God forbid, a coastline. With land close by downwind, the storm can drive the ship onto the land and wreck her. And so, his intense gaze was traveling from port to starboard, watching out carefully for the slightest signs of a near land or shoals in the water, on the horizon and even in the smell of the wind. But, thankfully, there was nothing within sight or sense, except a great, growling, angry ocean, its giant waves twisting and turning and carrying the “Maria Silenciosa” towards the dark horizon. Into an unknown, unfamiliar and uncharted sea. Deeper and deeper into the legendary Devil’s Triangle. A place that, according to legend, no one could ever find, except by accident and no one had ever charted because it cursed and claimed any ship that dared to enter its unholy waters. None could escape it, once they crossed the unknown border. A border that he realized he’d crossed when he commanded Moss to follow the God – cursed pirate into the God – cursed cave. No doubt the bastard knew where he was going and where he wanted his enemies to end up. And he, a Capitan of the Royal Navy, a veteran of many battles, a legendary sailor, who’d scoured the Caribbean through the length and breadth for years and could navigate it with his eyes closed, ought to have known better than allowing himself to be hoodwinked into chasing the “Wicked Wench” through a passage he’d never seen before, which wasn’t shown on any map he’d ever read. How pathetic! How disgustingly humiliating!  
But the fall from grace very quickly became the least of his worries as the cave he’d entered soon turned out to be a long, serpentine and deadly maze of a bay. Its waters were just deep enough for a ship of the line to sail through, chock – full of hidden lethal reefs just waiting to cut through the “Silent Mary’s” belly and haunted with the ghosts and skeletons of other ships and men, unfortunate enough to face the Devil’s triangle. As it turned out, he wasn’t the only captain to have made that mistake. But he was one of few, if not the only one to leave those hellish rocky bowls alive. It’d taken him and the crew over three hours and all of their legendary skill to outmaneuver death and bring their beloved vessel out safely and relatively unharmed. The open sea that lay ahead had welcomed her with playful, choppy waters, a dark, cloud – covered sky and a huge storm, already brewing deep within the water.  
At first, he thought of turning round and weathering the storm inside the tunnel. But then, as if in answer to his thoughts, a sudden gut – freezing howl emerged from the deep water. A sharp, ice – cold wind blew in from the north – east and the rocks began to shake and crack and crash into the restless water. There was only one way the Devil wanted him to go. Ahead. Full sail ahead, racing the wind, into the teeth of the emerging storm. Except, even now, he did not believe in devils and their curses and other superstitious nonsense repeated gladly by old women, bigoted priests and drunk sailors trying to scare minnows or impress wenches. He knew full well who the so – called ‘evil spirit’ truly was. And he was nothing more or less than a wild, stormy ocean.

“Oh, so you want to play? Bring it on!” – he’d thought calmly, a madcap smirk on his lips, as though he were silently speaking to a treacherous, cruel and tempestuous old friend, he’d known and loved all of his life - “Sailing the sea, even an unknown one, beating it and coming home again is what I’m trained for. What I’ve been doing my whole life. I’ve taken the sea on many times and I’ve always won. I always will. It’s who I am. El Matador Del Mar”…

 

Suddenly a huge bolt of lightning flashed across the lead – covered sky lighting it from one end to another, followed by a deafening crash of thunder. The wind bore down sharper and wilder than before, slashing Salazar’s face with rain and foam. As the churning sea followed, the prow began to swing with increasing velocity, forcing the “Silent Mary” broadside. Once again, the Matador put all his strength into the wheel, swinging it hard to port. Another wave came down, unleashing its deadly flow onto the deck, throwing the helmsman off – balance, the wheel slipping out of his grasp. The ship swung sideways and leaned terrifyingly as Salazar was flung aside. Cursing heartily, he threw himself down onto the wheel, gripping it again, battling for control and forcing it to port with all his strength. Bending like a bow, the foremast creaked and screamed, as, finally, he managed to steer the vessel windward. The “Silent Mary” rocked and shook, yet held the course. 

“Fores’ls!” – Salazar screamed. 

“Aye, sir!” – answered a faint sound of Lesaro’s voice, almost inaudible among the thunder of the gale.

Slowly and cautiously, inch by inch, Lesaro, Moss and two other men crawled aloft and disappeared in the web of the foremast rigging. 

Then came a terrified scream of the bow lookout, which the rest of the men felt, rather than heard.  
“We’re lost” – the lookout yelled almost incoherently, pointing ahead.

And then they saw it. A great wave, just of the starboard side, heading right towards them. And then another, even bigger one following it. And another one… And another… 

“Man the pumps!” – the captain shouted back at the top of his voice.  
Immediately six sailors ran below to aid their mates, who were struggling to keep the leaking water out. The rest of the crew remaining aloft were frantically checking their life ropes and throwing terrified glances as the quarterdeck, where Salazar was standing, clutching the helm with what force he had left, preparing to thrust the bow into the gigantic impending wall of water. Everyone knew he was the best helmsman in his crew. But, then again, Armando Salazar would’ve been the best helmsman in nearly any crew… And now, as many times before, his skills were to be put to the ultimate test. A test they knew that he would pass. He always did.  
Composed and collected, his mind clear and focused, oblivious to any fatigue and completely ignoring the silent screams of the terrified little man trapped deep inside his heart, El Matador stood tall amidst the chaos like a mast of calm. Fully prepared to take on whatever dared to come his way and lead his men through hell itself if need be.

“Hold on, lads!” – Lesaro shouted crossing himself, his heart bursting and his vision blurred completely as he watched the giant wave tower over them, raging, vicious and craving human flesh and blood. He griped the rope with all his might, preparing to hold on for dear life. So did the rest. Some of the crew were screaming, some praying frantically and some were too panic – stricken to do anything. Some staring wide – eyed and horrified, some snapping their eyes shut. 

The bow crashed down and the sea fell on the “Silent Mary” in full force as the mighty wave thundered across the deck. The whole ship shuddered. Salazar cursed and swung the wheel to starboard with all his might, fighting the hungry blackness that was trying to suck them into the vortex, hoping to goodness the rudder would survive. For a moment he thought that she had weltered, but the “Maria Silenciosa” swung out of the through. Water rolled off the deck through the scuppers, leaving the sailors choking on seawater and gasping for air. A sail snapped out of its ropes and cracked wildly as the winds filled it. Like an ominous drumroll.  
The foremast snapped. Immediately the sailors, led by Magda and Lesaro jumped at the rigging with knives in their hands and cut the mast free. The mast went over the side and took down several men caught up in the rigging with it. Those who were luckier barely had time to find cover before the next wave hit, taking more souls with it. And then the next one…  
Trying desperately to reach for a secure rope before the next wave hit, Lesaro looked onto the quarterdeck again. The Capitan was still there, groping the helm and fighting the sea like a lunatic, possessed by a madness. A madness the kind of which strong men grab with both hands and weaker ones wish they’d never witnessed. A madness he and the others loved and worshiped their captain for. A madness that always got them through no matter how hopeless and impossible it seemed... 

The furious sea flooded the “Silent Mary” again and again, hurling huge spumes of foam into the sky. The waves were now attacking on all sides of the compass smashing her violently, shoving her from side to side, forcing her timbers, ropes and chains to scream and wail with strain. With the foremast gone, she’d lost half of her strength and was now floundering almost helplessly at the mercy of the current. Hurling curses at the storm, Salazar fought the wheel against the sea, his heart nearly bursting and his strength fading fast. He tried to maintain focus, but his vision grew more blurred and fading. The barely distinguishable colors mixed into a dark – gray haze of water and the deck lurched forward violently as a devilish blow of encircling waves struck the “Maria Silenciosa”, swallowing her whole and pulling her down into the roaring black abyss. 

“Not, bloody yet!” - El Matador roared as all of a sudden he felt a second wind rising somewhere deep inside his failing body and pushed the wheel with all his might in a final desperate stubborn throw. He’d never stop the fight. Not while he was alive…  
Water churned and threw him and filled his lungs and he felt its cold bite deep with himself. Pain shot through his entire body and his head felt both light and heavy as though he were completely drunk and dazed. His chest burst with pain to breathe, his world went black and his hands finally let go of the wheel… Then, suddenly, he felt his knees and hands and face crash painfully down onto the wet, slimy deck. The bitter salty water flowed out of his mouth and he coughed violently as he gasped for breath. Jumping to his feet and grabbing the wheel again, he saw the bow of the “Silent Mary” spring up and then crash down into the water, afloat and well against all odds. Most of the crew aloft were on their knees, spitting, retching and struggling for breath. The rain had almost stopped and the waves, although still big, were not as fierce and angry.  
Salazar shouted out happily and laughed like a madman. The sea was calming down and the battle was over. They had won.


	2. Fall from grace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to EuphemiasFortune for the comment and to everyone for the kudos. It's always nice to get feedback. 
> 
> As stated before, Salazar's story is based on the biography of Admiral Blas de Lezo.

“… they sailed into the Devil’s Triangle and that’s the last I saw of ‘em. The last anyone will ever see” – the pirate concluded his fearful and extraordinary tale.  
On his knees, his hands and ankles shackled in irons, he was looking up at the Spanish officers questioning him and throwing occasional weary glances at the sailor standing in the corner, twiddling a flogger playfully in his hands. 

“Devil’s Triangle?!” – the younger officer, a handsome, aristocratic looking man of about twenty-five, dressed in a Spanish captain’s uniform huffed scornfully – “You dare insult us with superstitious nonsense, thief?!”

“It’s true, sir” – the pirate replied pleadingly as he saw the young captain give a light nod to the sailor with the flogger – “Everyone in these waters knows that whoever dares to sail into the Triangle is cursed and lost forever. No one ever came out and no one ever will…”

“There’re no rocks or caves within miles of here” – the captain huffed – “Not within sight and not on any chart. So were’s that cave of your then, eh?”

“The legend says that the Triangle can only be found by accident…”

“Enough!” – the young man snapped and the pirate screamed as the flogger swung down onto his raw back with a violent whiz - “You will tell us the truth even if it costs you every drop of blood you have”

“Please, sir, I…” – the pirate whimpered and screamed again when the whip licked the rawness of his bloody flesh one more time. How many times today, he didn’t know. He’d lost count.  
It was about to do so again, when, suddenly, to his eternal joy, the older officer, who, judging by his uniform and regalia could only be the Spanish Admiral Don Juan Tomás Enríque de Cabrera y Ponce de Leon, Naval commander of the Spanish Force in Havana and the Caribbean raised a hand, gesturing his tormentor to halt. 

“What happened to the other vessel?” – the admiral asked calmly, his wise old eyes looking searchingly into the pirate’s, probing them, testing his words for truth and lies. He was a smallish, taught and rather round man with a pointy white beard and mustache, whose skin was wrinkled and withered, but not too tanned. His age was hard to guess, but the pirate knew him to be well over sixty. 

“They sailed away sir” – the pirate answered, sad, but hopeful the old man would believe him and let his sufferings come to a much welcome end. At least for a while.

“Why didn’t they come back for you?” – Cabrera said, raising an eyebrow – “I’d wager you weren’t the only survivor in the water”

“No, sir. But ‘whoever falls behind is left behind’” – the pirate replied with a sigh.

“I see” 

“No camaraderie among thieves and murderers, eh?” – the young captain chuckled scornfully.

“Pirate’s life - pirate’s code, Capitan Miralles” – Cabrera replied, the corners of his dry, thin lips twisted into a little smile – “Isn’t that true, sailor?”

“Aye, sir” – the pirate answered, shrugging his shoulders. He couldn’t have put it better himself.

“I suppose we should all consider ourselves lucky you didn’t drown before we came like the rest of them, shouldn’t we?” – Cabrera chuckled sarcastically.

“I suppose so, sir” – the pirate replied rather meekly.

“Very well, then” – said the admiral, grabbing two richly decorated gold covered canes and getting up heavily from his chair – “Lock him in the brig”

“Almirante…” – Miralles tried to protest, looking surprised and horrified.

But Don Cabrera didn’t care to listen. Limping badly and leaning heavily on his canes the Admiral turned around and walked out of the cabin, nodding for Miralles to follow. Throwing the pirate a last mean and hateful look, the captain obeyed. 

 

“So, Capitan, what do you make of all this?” – Cabrera asked Miralles as they came aloft and began to make their way onto the quarterdeck, the old admiral cursing under his breath as he battled the steep staircase. 

“I believe the pirate lied to us to try and save his so – called friends, mi Almirante” – the young captain replied confidently, waiting patiently behind for the Commander to clamber up, ready to assist him if necessary – “Obviously the ‘Maria Silenciosa’ didn’t disappear in any kind of invisible cursed cave with evil magic. She must’ve gone after the last surviving pirate ship. He’s taking us for fools and making up ridiculous stories to try and prevent us from also giving chase”

“You think so?” – Cabrera asked with a chuckle, which quickly turned into a sigh of relief as he finally managed to conquer the damned stairs and limped out onto the quarterdeck. The sailors and officers on watch saluted him deferentially.

“Of course, sir” – Miralles replied, sounding slightly annoyed – “If the ‘Maria Silenciosa’ were defeated and sunk, he’d have told us, so the battle didn’t go according to the pirates’ plan”

“Aye, that is evident” – Cabrera chuckled as he sank heavily into the sea - chair next to the wheel and looked ahead at Miralles’ ‘San Jose’ floating quietly on anchor about fifty feet from his own ‘Estrella Del Mar’ amidst a sea of corpses, charred and broken wood, ripped sails, overturned boats, boxes and barrels and burned black and white flags, all scattered for miles around. The evidence of a fierce sea – battle, which according to the prisoner, took place several hours ago. The mortal remains of the last pirate fleet in the Caribbean played with and eventually claimed by the currents of the merciless sea. In a few days, there’ll be nothing left, but stories of yet another great victory won by the legendary El Matador Del Mar, who defeated ten pirate ships with just his ‘Silent Mary’. But… Whether that battle was Salazar’s last triumph, Cabrera couldn’t say. 

“Mi Almirante, shouldn’t we be questioning the pirate until he tells us…” – Miralles continued rather impertinently.

“Until he tells us what, mi Capitan?” – Cabrera replied with the gracious patience of an old sea - dog, amused by the hard and fast plan the inexperienced and impetuous young officer no doubt had – “It is ridiculous to even think of giving chase now, hours after the battle”

“Are we to do nothing, sir?” – Miralles asked, his voice polite and cordial, but with a wary undertone, which didn’t escape Don Juan. 

“No, Capitan, we are to make way for Havana” – the admiral answered in a calm, mentoring tone – “If you are correct and the pirate lied, Capitan Salazar is way ahead of us. We do not know his course, we cannot trust the pirate to provide us with so much as a good guess, especially after he’d spent several hours in the water and then was given a good flogging by his enemies. And even if we knew, the ‘Maria Silenciosa’ is faster than either the “Estrella Del Mar” or “San Jose”, so we cannot make good enough time. Besides, Capitan Salazar obviously didn’t need our help to defeat a fleet of ten ships, much less chase down one lonely pirate”

“What if it’s a trap?” – Miralles countered – “Our spies reported that the ‘Brotherhood’ was planning an assault on Capitan Salazar, but there was nothing in it about Teach”

“Teach? You mean, Blackbeard?”

“He’s one of the greatest pirate threats in the Caribbean and he hates us even more than he hates the British, especially Capitan Salazar. I doubt he’d want to merely sit back and watch others take action. So, what if those ten ships were just a scouting party and the ‘lonely pirate ship’ survived because it never engaged? What if it was meant to survive to take the ‘Maria Silenciosa’ to where the ‘Revenge’ and the rest are waiting?”

Cabrera laughed as he looked up at the stubborn and impertinent stripling of an officer, not smart enough and way too young and inexperienced for the Capitan’s epaulettes he got because of noble birth and because his father in law, the Governor of Havana, didn’t want to leave his only child behind in Spain with her husband when he got posted in the Caribbean.  
No doubt the idiot was bored on land, dreaming of glory, desperate to finally smell some gunpowder and praying nightly not to Jesus Christ, but to Armando Salazar, as most youngsters and even older sailors did these days. ‘Invincible’ they called him. And invincible he was. Pride of the Spanish Royal Navy and a favorite of the king. A man hailed as a hero and a legend on both sides of the Atlantic. A captain, whose name was the synonym of victory and power. As Cabrera’s had once been… before his glory was stolen from him by another stripling of a captain. No, not stolen… Won. Won fairly in a fierce battle. Earned and proven time and time again since.

“A scouting party of ten ships?” – the old admiral snorted. The officers and sailors on watch and within hearing range sniggered quietly – “These are pirates, Capitan, not the British or Ottoman navy. They are a bunch of disorderly gringos who would betray their own mothers for a cask of rum and a syphilis - infected wench. Trust me, those ten ships were the largest force they could ever muster unless they’re privateers, which they weren’t. And as for Teach… I’m afraid you still have a great deal to learn about pirates, my young friend” 

“Sir?” – Miralles asked, with outward calm, trying his best not to blush and feeling mortified at being made the laughing stock.

“Teach may hate us, but he’s way too smart and arrogant to join the ‘Pirate Brethren’. If they win, none of them will be able to claim the full price or the full glory. If not, there’s no reason for him to die, when there’re lots of others who can do it for him. Hence, no reason for him to stick his neck out by joining them”

“I see”

“Trust me, if the ‘Maira Silenciosa’ is still afloat in the Caribbean after what happened, she’s quite safe”

“Forgive me, Almirante, but what do you mean ‘if’?” – Miralles asked suspiciously – “Surely, you don’t believe in the Devil’s Triangle or any other kind of old sailors’ myths?”

Did he believe… Good question, thought Don Juan as he shifted in his sea – chair to make himself more comfortable and turned his gaze to the horizon.  
As a literate, cultured and well-educated man he knew perfectly well that rocks and caves cannot appear and disappear at whim. And there was nothing within sight, but restless waves, playing with the remains of ships and men and a devious, endless, blue waste of the sea. No sign of land, no reefs and definitely no cave the pirate spoke of. Not even the slightest signal of a shoal.  
Being a good catholic, the only magic he believed in was the magic of the Love of God. And that of the deceptions of Diablo. So he could not take any of the old tales of ghosts and curses seriously. But… he’d lived long enough to know when there was too much smoke not to be fire. And he’d heard way too many stories, rumors, and accounts of different origin and timing… Without a doubt, something was wrong and strange about these waters, where countless ships have sailed free for centuries, yet every once in a while a vessel vanished mysteriously, without a trace, leaving no clue of what happened to it. Was it indeed the Devil’s work? Or just the fault of some strange natural phenomenon no one could yet explain? Cabrera didn’t know. And neither, frankly, did it matter, because if Salazar didn’t come back one way or another, the Devil and the Sea would not be the ones to get the blame… 

“The sea holds many secrets, Capitan” – the old admiral replied cryptically after a rather long and heavy pause – “Things have been happening in these waters for hundreds of years. Things that no one can explain. I know what I believe. But, you might not agree…”

“Sir?” – the captain gasped, looking bewildered and even more suspicious. 

Cabrera didn’t answer. Instead, he shifted in his sea – chair, fished a small silver flask of wine out of his breast pocket and took a few large gulps. The rich, tart, savory liquid burned his mouth and stomach pleasantly, and would soon dull the pain in his back and legs. A pain that for almost five years has been his constant companion.  
He shouldn’t be out here, Cabrera told himself with a heavy sigh. He couldn’t even stand up straight, much less fight and chase pirates. He was too old, too tired and too lame. The sea that had once favored him, like a fickle and faithless beauty, had long withdrawn her grace, bestowing it on another man, and hence was no place for him.  
He should’ve gone ashore for good right after Barcelona, the admiral thought sadly, as he was staring meditatively at the perfect line of contrast between shades of blue in a faraway place where the ocean meets the sky and sensing Miralles’ heavy and mistrustful gaze upon himself.  
He hadn’t really sailed since he came to Havana four years ago and he shouldn’t have ventured out now. He only did so, because, with most of his captains out on patrol or escorting merchant ships, there was no one else to aid Salazar when the intelligence of the pirate assault came, hours after the ‘Maria Silenciosa’ left Havana. And there was no way in hell he could sit this one out on land, regardless of how many ships he had in harbor. Because no one, not the king, or the governor, or the navy, or the people on both sides of the Atlantic would ever believe the old admiral left Salazar to fight alone out of common sense and not the vengeful bitterness of an old enemy.  
Even now, with clear evidence of Salazar’s victory and no other real options, Raul Miralles obviously thought Cabrera had decided to go back to Havana instead of giving chase out of pure spite and personal vendetta. And if Salazar was indeed lost in the Devil’s Triangle never to return, that’s exactly what Miralles would tell his father in law, Governor Cristóbal de Palencia. What he, in turn, would imply, when writing to His Majesty King Felipe of a terrible tragedy and a dire loss to the Spanish Empire and Crown. Would the monarch ever believe the truth? Or would he think Cabrera had left Salazar to die deliberately, to get revenge for his spectacular fall from grace in Barcelona? Knowing Felipe’s suspicious nature and dark and melancholy disposition, the answer would most likely be the latter… And what the king would do about it was anyone’s guess…

But were they really wrong, Don Juan asked himself, searching the darkest corners of his soul that held his worst and most painful memories. Although he could honestly say that he did everything in his power, within reason, to try to help the Matador, how would he truly feel if Salazar didn’t come back? Would he become a grieving comrade or a bitter old rival, secretly rejoicing his enemy’s demise?  
The honest answer was, he would be both. In the four years they’d served together Cabrera really grew to admire and even love the proud, glorious and arrogant daredevil, who inspired love and loyalty in men like no one else he’d ever known. However…the taste of defeat, bitter as gall and burning as the fire that consumed his ships was still as fresh as it had ever been. The memory of Barcelona was even more alive in the old man’s mind than the present moment and would forever be his torment… 

The year was 1714 and the bloody Civil War of the Succession that had gone on for fourteen years and claimed hundreds of thousands of good people all across Spain and Europe was near its conclusion. The Archduke Charles of Austria had lost a good part of the country to his rival Felipe de Bourbon. Beautiful Barcelona, which had surrendered to the Archduke in 1705, had now become his last outpost and, after the treaty of Utrecht, his last hope for the Spanish throne. Luckily for Charles, the General Estates of Catalonia, who’d decided to continue to be loyal to the Archduke’s cause in order to defend the Catalan constitutions, were prepared to fight to the death. So that was what they did. For over a year, since July 1713 Barcelona had been surrounded by Bourbon forces under the command of Restaino Cantelmo-Stuart, Duke of Popoli, but all their countless attacks upon the city had been fruitless. Because the key to the ancient fortress was the sea, so as long as the Archduke’s navy held, Barcelona would not fall. And he, Juan Tomás Enríquez de Cabrera y Ponce de Leon, 11th and last hereditary Admiral of Castile, Governor of the Duchy of Milan, Viceroy of Catalonia, member of the State Council, ambassador in Rome and France, Caballerizo mayor to the King, Field Marshal of the Holy Roman Empire and now Chief Commander of the Archduke’s navy was not going to surrender. He’d been the anchor of the Habsburg naval force for many years, a legendary admiral who’d never been defeated by anyone in the Mediterranean, including his Spanish Bourbon loyalist counterpart Admiral Andrés de Pez y Malzarraga. They’d met in battle many times over fourteen years, especially during the yearly siege of Barcelona, but always with the same result. No matter how strong or cunning his enemy was, Don Juan de Cabrera remained victorious. Until the last days of August 1714.  
The Bourbons, running out of men and supplies and plagued by disease, were becoming more and more desperate for a quick victory, since a defeat in Barcelona could turn the tide of a long, hard, ruinous and wasting war they’d almost won. For two months their navy had been constantly in action, attacking Cabrera’s ships with small scouting forces and conducting daring, almost suicidal amphibious assaults on land, never engaging properly, yet doing substantial damage both to the fleet and to the city. Finally, the Admiral’s patience had grown thin and he decided to annihilate the Bourbon fleet once and for all. A potentially risky venture, since the sea was Barcelona’s main line of defense, but a necessary one. And a sure victory, Don Juan had told the Archduke, since Admiral De Pez, who’d fallen ill and was in no condition to lead his forces, had foolishly entrusted the command to some nobody. A youngster of obscure birth, made captain no more than six months prior. The son of some merchant sailor, a man of twenty – five, who earned his epaulets and made a name for himself by leading men on suicidal missions, including an unheard - of capturing of a British ship of the line with a frigate he didn’t even command. A name Cabrera as a hereditary admiral and an aristocrat didn’t know or even care to know since there was no doubt it would disappear as suddenly as it came to be.  
And so, on August 30th, the two fleets met just off the coast of Barcelona. Don Juan traveled through his fleet in a swift vessel, urging his officers and men to do their utmost in this final battle, which he promised, they would win and, thus, free the city from the enemy. They greeted him with cheers, none of them doubting him. After that, the sacrament was administered and lines of battle were formed.  
Cabrera chuckled bitterly as he remembered how he laughed at his enemy, who’d apparently made a foolish, ignorant mistake, by positioning all his ships in a single line, instead of placing the heavier ships in front of the lighter ones as Cabrera himself did. A placement which would allow the fleet to reach the enemy ships simultaneously and form a single line of combat.  
This was going to be even easier than he thought, Don Juan told himself triumphantly as he watched the Bourbon fleet approach, carried by the wind, with brigs sailing way ahead of the frigates, which, in turn, were ahead of the ships of the line. Scattered and all but asking to be encircled and destroyed.  
But all his joyous anticipation of an easy victory turned into terror and panic the moment his ships opened fire at close quarters at the fast approaching brigs. Chock full of powder, well placed and steered carefully into his formation by heroic helmsmen, who jumped ship right before first impact, the fireships slashed into the perfectly formed line like a legion of fire – demons or like the flaming swords of cherubs, sent down by God to punish the old admiral for his arrogance. Blowing up almost simultaneously in gigantic fire – balls that seemed to spread across the sky and drown the whole world in fire, they torched Cabrera’s entire navy into eleven parts and sent his scattered, burning ships straight into the arms of the main enemy force of frigates and line ships. Completely intact, in perfect formation to encircle and annihilate their dying enemy, the Bourbon fleet sailed eagerly to meet the Habsburgs, their banners flying high and proud, the morale of their sailors skyrocketing.  
True to their vows and their admiral, Cabrera’s men fought valiantly, when they were breached and hand to hand combat ensued, but it was clear to everyone, the battle was already lost, along with Barcelona and the Archduke’s crown.  
After nearly two hours of fierce melee, all of the Habsburg ships were either sunk or captured. Don Juan himself was wounded, his spine broken at its base from a bad fall from the quarterdeck. His flagship was captured and his standard taken down by Vinçente Puertos, an old comrade turned enemy. A captain he’d known for many years in Milan, but never bothered to acknowledge or befriend as he was way below Don Juan in rank and family. And now, when Puertos came to arrest him for high treason in name of His Majesty King Felipe, Don Juan refused to bow down to a former subordinate and demanded that, since he couldn’t walk, the leader of the Bourbons, whatever his name was, should come to him to accept his surrender. Puertos, who was a self – made man of humble birth, took great offense to that. He cursed the former admiral for his hauteur and laughed at him.

“ ‘Whatever his name is’, as you call him, is Capitan Armando Salazar. Salazar” – Puertos told Cabrera proudly – “You would do well to remember it and address him by name and rank, as befits a victorious admiral”

“He is no admiral and he never will be” – Don Juan retorted spitefully – “But rest assured, Capitan, I won’t forget his name”

And he did not. Neither did the whole of Europe or the Spanish Empire. Armando Salazar’s star was lighted beneath the walls of Barcelona and ever since was burning high and brilliant like Sirius, brightest star in the northern hemisphere. 

After the Habsburg navy was destroyed, the Bourbon land forces under the command of the Duke of Berwick, breached Barcelona’s walls and entered the city.  
Felipe de Bourbon finally triumphed on the 11th of September 1714. Cabrera was arrested and taken to the Castle of Pamplona, where he was imprisoned for almost a year. In time, the wounds in his flesh and spine had healed but left him lame for whatever life the sixty-year-old man still had. The wounds in his soul, however, were beyond any healer’s skills.  
To his surprise, by spring of 1715, Don Juan was released and pardoned by King Felipe, who was not a vindictive fool and quite prepared to overlook the noble and talented old sailor’s past offenses in return for faithful service to the Crown. So, by royal decree, Cabrera was to be stripped of half his titles and exiled to Havana. To lead the fleet, patrolling the Spanish Main and hunt the pirates plaguing those waters and inflicting considerable damage on the Empire’s treasury. Reluctantly, Cabrera had accepted the exceptionally generous offer and the post many men would gladly die for.  
But there was no end to the Don Juan’s astonishment when he found out that Capitan Armando Salazar, the glorious hero hailed across the empire for his fearlessness, boarding insanity, the brilliance of his mind and his exceptional navigational skills, a favorite of King Felipe who was granted the incredible honor of personally commanding the ship that brought the king’s new bride, the Princess of Parma to her new homeland, had refused a prestigious position in the Spanish admiralty in Cadiz and was begging his royal patron for a post in Havana, sailing under the command of a man he’d defeated. Promising the king that within five years he’d singlehandedly rid the Caribbean of the pirate plague. After a struggle, the king finally granted his favorite captain’s wish. And thus, the hunt began.

A hunt that now, possibly, has finally come to an end, the old admiral thought with a heavy sigh, his whole being suddenly becoming sad for the proud and courageous captain and his loyal men.  
Could Salazar have really been that stupidly arrogant or that insanely reckless as to follow the pirates into a cave he didn’t know and had never seen before? Unfortunately, Cabrera knew the answer to that only too well. However… If it were any other captain in the Devil’s Triangle, Don Juan would be sure his cause was hopeless. But this was Salazar. A man whose life was made through defying common sense, defeating known truths and… 

“Sails ho!” - the lookout’s sudden cry pulled Cabrera out of his meditation.

Immediately, Miralles pulled out his spyglass and looked in the direction the bow lookout was pointing.

“Well?” – Cabrera asked impatiently – “Who is it? Pirates? English?”

“It’s the ‘Maria Silenciosa’” - the young captain replied with a happy smile. 

“What?” - Cabrera gasped, snatching the spyglass from Miralles and looking at the small square dot on the horizon. 

“She’s flying our colors, mi Almirante” 

Taking no notice of the young officer, who was obviously oblivious to the possibility of false colors, which, by the way, was the oldest sailors’ trick in the world, Don Juan stared intently at the lone vessel, brought closer by an ingenious system of lenses developed by the Dutch just over a century ago. The ship was indeed flying the banner of the Spanish Royal Navy. Even from this distance, she looked rather worn and battered. Her foremast was gone and half her sails rolled up. But, still, there could be no mistake. It was indeed the “Silent Mary”. Well and afloat and out of any danger from men or supernatural forces.


	3. Cursed

The stars twinkled affably in the transparent blackness of a moonless sky and the lazy waves of a dozing, restful sea licked the hulls of three ships of the line as they were slowly, almost leisurely making their way south - east, to the port of Havana. With barely any wind to carry them and the current under their keels slack and indolent, they couldn’t hope to make port in less than two days, but that didn’t seem to matter. Sterns illuminated brightly by lights flickering playfully on the slightly foamy wave crests and old sailor’s songs flowing from their decks and echoing cheerfully across the endless vastness of the Caribbean, they seemed to be on a pleasant and relaxing jaunt, with no fear of ambush and no caution of chance encounters. Because, for the first time in decades, the odds of a pirate ambush or a privateer chance encounter were slim to none. The sea was finally pure and both the merchant and military Spanish fleets were free to ride the winds from one end of their vast empire to the other without fear. 

“At least for a little while” – admiral Cabrera thought with a smile, sipping his wine and smiling as he listened to the happy chatter of his officers, gathered in his quarters aboard the “Estrella Del Mar” for a small celebratory dinner he decided to hold in honor of “a master of the sea and Spain’s best and truly invincible captain” as he dubbed Salazar after hearing and, most importantly, believing every word of his dry, but detailed report.  
Perhaps it was foolhardy to let his guard down too much and practically advertise their position to anyone who’d be interested to know, Don Juan mused, but his gut told him that nothing would happen tonight. And, with the ‘Brotherhood’ destroyed, nothing would happen in these waters for quite a while yet. 

Of course, it is impossible to eliminate the pirate threat completely, Cabrera thought, barely listening to Miralles who was excitedly reciting some poem called “Devil’s Tide”, which the young fool seemed to think, would be perfect to honor the Matador’s stunning victory against the pirates and even the sea itself and the fulfillment of his promise to the king and his holy oath to “end the plague”.  
It is impossible because, in truth, piracy as a phenomenon is nothing more than human nature. It is as natural for petty, selfish, lazy men to take the easy path in life and steal rather than earn and lollygag rather than serve as it is for hyenas to steal prey from a mighty lion and eat up scraps. It is a way of life that many men of all nations and casts have chosen for thousands of years and no doubt will be choosing again until the very end of time. The vicious cycle of killing, looting, whores and cheap, undrinkable liquor was a temptation that Diablo had perfected and successfully inflicted on every poor soul, foolish enough to think that fleeting pleasures had anything to do with real happiness and anarchy had anything to do with real freedom. And there is nothing in the whole wide world that anyone can really do about that. It is a known truth.  
However… the best and worst thing about a ‘known truth’ is that, sooner or later, there always comes a ‘somebody’ to doubt it, to say ‘No!’. Every once in a while, a man, no doubt blessed by God, would rise up to put common sense to shame, defeat known truths and bring true greatness into the world. Such a man was Fernando Magellan, the first captain to circumnavigate the globe many men believed to be flat.  
Could Capitan Armando Salazar also be a man chosen by God to shame the Devil and within years do what others failed to do in decades - end the Golden Age of Piracy? Perhaps... His successes in drowning pirates in their own blood to date were unprecedented and he’s already won at least one fight against the Devil. Maybe it truly was his fate to break the magic that Diablo made…There could be no denying that there was something within the Matador, Cabrera had never seen in anyone before. A drive… A light… A fire… 

The old Admiral’s thoughts were interrupted by a burst of cheers and applause from his officers as Miralles finished his recital. Don Cabrera smiled and praised the young captain graciously, but the joy faded from his face as soon as his gaze turned to the hero of the evening. Pale and weary, Salazar was staring absently into the distance, barely registering what was going on and taking no notice of his surroundings. His eyes, endless and fiery, had suddenly become glassy and darker than usual, his piercing gaze dulled by an invisible shroud of pain. His strong, but lively face turned still, becoming a ghostly, white mask.  
For a split second Don Juan felt his heart stop in between beats by a strange, icy fear. He’d never seen Salazar like this before and neither had anyone else. It was well known that the Matador had a high tolerance for pain and always made an important point of never showing weakness of any kind. What in the world could have happened to change that? Had he been wounded in battle with the pirates and was now rapidly losing blood? Or was there something else ailing him… something to do with his battle against a far more dangerous opponent…  
Luckily, the other officers didn’t really seem to notice the sudden change in their companion’s demeanor. They were laughing and conversing lively amongst themselves, toasting the Matador’s victory and no doubt dreaming of their own. All except Salazar’s faithful sidekick and childhood friend teniente Lesaro, who was also looking at his captain with concern. 

“Salazar?” – Don Juan asked, bending over to whisper in the captain’s ear – “Are you unwell, amigo mio?” 

 

The flickering lights of candles lit abundantly in the admiral’s quarters were spinning faster and faster before Capitan Salazar’s eyes, making him feel lightheaded and dizzy as though he were drunk. The sweet and spicy smell of freshly cooked food and uncorked wine suddenly became so strong it was suffocating and the happy chatter of the officers began to fade rapidly from his ears. Salazar cursed silently as the world began closing into blackness all around him and tried to keep himself from fainting by gripping his chair. He knew the onset all too well.  
In a few minutes, the left side of his head will be burning and throbbing with a pain that made flesh wounds and broken bones seem like a minor inconvenience. Hemicrania. A malady that started with an explosion at the siege of Toulon. An explosion that took Lesaro’s eye and left him with severe headaches that came without warning and usually lasted for a few hours, but could sometimes go on for days on end. They have tormented him for near ten years, becoming the bane of his existence and his greatest secret. There was no cure, no way to alleviate the agony even a little. It was so bad, Salazar even thought about ending it by blowing out his brains the first time the hemicrania came. But as the years passed he learned to bear it and not show it. It would never do to let his men see him in that kind of state. Only Lesaro, his best friend, and most loyal officer knew of this affliction.

“Perfect fucking timing!”- Salazar grumbled to himself gulping down a strong bout of nausea. He took a deep breath and tried his best to maintain focus among the sickening gayety of his fellow officers, but his mind was rapidly going numb and he could barely register what the exited men were saying.  
No doubt something ridiculous, judging by the smug look that pompous idiot Miralles had on his face, Salazar thought meanly. He could hardly stand the man, who was yet to see a single battle but was always glad to voice a useless opinion on anything and everything. No doubt, he was convinced that success and glory, as well as admiration, were his birthright and that anyone would be flattered by an offer of friendship from a charming and gracious fellow like himself. 

“With your permission, Almirante, a toast” – a slightly drunk Miralles said enthusiastically as he rose with a glass of red wine in his hand – “A poem called “Devil’s tide”. For the man who cheated the Devil himself”

“Go on then, let’s hear it” – Cabrera laughed, taking a sip out of his glass.

Miralles began his recital with artistry and passion worthy of a poet or an actor… or a court jester, the Matador could’ve added, but the young man’s words were lost on the hero of the evening, who was gritting his teeth to refrain from groaning and hurling silent curses at the bomb, the English, and the entire world as, once again, the left side of his head exploded with the fires of hell. They throbbed and burned his eyes and all but cracked open his skull. His vision became blurred and clouded and suddenly Salazar felt like he was still lost somewhere in the violent storm of the Devil’s Triangle, gripping the wheel and drowning in the greedy sea as it swallowed the ‘Maria Silenciosa’. His world turned black and white and for a moment he thought he heard a distinct voice of the young pirate ring loudly among the thunder of the gale.  
“You surrender to me now and I'll let you live!” – it laughed – “I shall let you live!”  
The taste of cold, salty water filling his mouth turned his stomach, but the strange vision passed as suddenly as it appeared, leaving nothing but the disgusting, constant nausea that always came with the pain. 

“Salazar? Are you unwell, amigo mio?”

The sound of Cabrera’s calm, concerned voice whispering in his ear felt like a cold compress on the captain’s burning forehead. Never before had it seemed to be so gentle, so full of wise sympathy and kindness. Salazar almost didn’t recognize it.  
I must be looking pathetically bad for the admiral to address me in such a way, Salazar thought anxiously.  
He couldn’t possibly allow his pain to show, especially in front of his peers and his admiral. Only the strong and proud command respect. Only the strong and proud can lead and know that they’ll be followed. Without his strength… what else was there? 

“Not at all, mi Almirante” – Salazar replied quietly, trying to move only his lips and let his head, burning with infernal pain, stay as still as possible.

“Are you sure about that?” - Don Juan asked, eyeing his captain searchingly.

“Yes sir”

“Capitan, if you need to excuse yourself, go back to your ship and send for the surgeon, I will understand” – the admiral told him forcefully, annoyed at Salazar’s useless, stubborn pride and feeling afraid for him. An emotion that was entirely new and rather strange, though not at all inexplicable – “I need you now more than ever and you’re no good to me sick”

“That won’t be necessary, Almirante” – Salazar replied through gritted teeth, wanting nothing more than to accept the old man’s offer, go back to his cabin, lie down and stay completely still.

“Very well then” – Cabrera replied, unconvinced and worried as he’d ever been, but determined to let Salazar be the master of his own fate and at least try to enjoy the rest of the evening. 

Time stopped for Salazar as he sat motionless, trying his best to focus on the company and conversation, but failing at it miserably. The pain in his head was getting worse than it had ever been, weakness and lassitude were swallowing him like a deadly swamp and the nausea was unbearable. He couldn’t stand the flickering lights, the smells and the sounds of laughter, somehow they made him even sicker.  
Cabrera was sitting at the head of the table meditatively, lost in thought and pretending to listen to Miralles, who was making the most of his opportunity to shine by telling some absurd, made up story of a duel for the honor of a pretty lady he got himself into while still unmarried and living in his parents estate near Barcelona. If it weren’t for the pain in his head, Salazar would’ve rolled his eyes. But now he was afraid of doing even that. 

“Oh, and… Speaking of good fortune” – the captain’s ears registered the admiral’s happy voice reluctantly, the words making no sense in his chaotic and inflamed mind, feeling a lump of food slowly, but surely making its way back to his mouth instead of forward to his stomach.

“The formalities of adoption have now been completed” – Don Juan said joyfully. And before the Matador knew what was happening, he found himself looking at what he believed to be a small portrait of a young girl, shoved into his hands by Don Cabrera. He could see nothing, but blurred spots of white and blue and brown where the girl’s face and gown and hair ought to have been, but Salazar willed himself to focus on the picture and nod, hopefully, with a convincing enough grunt of approval. Saying nothing, he passed the picture on.  
Of course, he knew the story well enough. Despite two marriages and goodness knows how many mistresses, Don Juan Cabrera was still childless. None of his women ever got pregnant by him, although some of them later had children by other men. A fact the old admiral had reluctantly accepted but refused to comply with. And now, apparently, he was trying to cheat fate by taking in some poor relative or other. 

“Ah, she is a very handsome young lady” – he heard lieutenant Rivero say as he passed the picture to Lesaro, who complimented the girl lavishly. As did the rest of them. 

“Yes, she is” – the admiral said proudly, his voice echoing in Salazar’s ears and bringing new and violent jerks of pain with it – “And so accomplished…”

But captain Salazar never got to know which of his new daughter’s qualities Cabrera was about to praise. His head was spinning violently with mind-numbing pain, exploding incessantly inside him like the barrels chock full of gunpowder all those years ago in Toulon and filling him with agonizing fire that took away almost all his ability to see, to hear, to concentrate and put together a coherent sentence in his mind, much less his mouth, yet somehow increased every sensation by a thousandfold. The room, the lights, the faces of his fellow officers, the stench of food and bodies and seawater, the sounds of voices, waves, and music coming from the deck were flying all around him in a weird haze of mixed, incoherent sensations. But among all that chaos, there was one thing that Salazar could see and hear and take in perfectly – the vision of the pirate boy shouting at him from the crow’s nest, mocking his power, inviting him to admit defeat and race forward to his death. His face and voice were mercilessly sharp and distinct, almost as though they were being deliberately carved into the captain’s mind and memory with endless, piercing pain.  
Whether or not it had something to do with the storm or the Devil’s Triangle, Salazar didn’t know, but he couldn’t remember the last time he had had a fit that was so bad and strange. The pain and nausea could go on for days, but the impaired senses and incoherence of thoughts and speech never lasted for more than twenty minutes. Maybe there was something to this curse business after all, he felt himself think. Or was it mere coincidence… or… was his illness merely getting worse…

Suddenly Salazar realized that the room was filled with a thick, dark silence that was getting heavier by the second. The faces of his fellow officers were illegible to his eyes, as though he were seeing them through water, but he knew they were all looking at him expectantly and with growing suspicion. 

“Erm… excuse me, caballeros” – Salazar finally said, trying to sound as natural and carefree as possible while staying as still as possible – “I’m afraid I got caught up in my own thoughts. I beg your forgiveness”

“It’s all right, Capitan” – Don Juan replied casually, coming to his rescue – “We all know you don’t care about such things. The sea and naval warfare is El Matador’s first and only interest”

Strictly speaking, that wasn’t entirely true, but Salazar was certainly not going to argue. 

“That’s why by your age, Capitan Miralles, he was already a masterful sailor with a reputation for insane bravery and quite a few victories under his belt” – the admiral added in a slightly snide tone, chosen especially to put the obnoxious young captain in his place.

“I’m afraid you give me too much credit, sir” – Salazar replied with a labored grin on his lips, displaying the humility which was certainly expected of him – “I do the best I can to learn and perfect every aspect of my craft, but a lot of it is just experience. As you know I’ve had the good fortune to be recruited as a midshipman during the very first days of the war. And in fourteen years of constant fighting, you cannot help but learn”

“Mi Capitan is too modest” – Cabrera reciprocated with a gracious little smile, as, also, was expected in such situations – “But it is true that no amount of learning can replace experience. And vice versa. Wouldn’t you agree, caballeros?” 

The officers quickly joined the conversation, but Salazar could feel them throwing furtive, wondering looks at him.

“Salazar, you’re excused” – Cabrera told him in a quiet whisper bending over as closely as he could – “Go deal with whatever is the matter with you”

“Sir, I…” – Salazar tried to protest reluctantly.

“That is an order, Capitan” – the admiral cut off.

Leaning heavily on the tabletop, fighting the weakness that seized his muscles and willing his eyes to focus, Salazar got up.

“Pray excuse me, Almirante. Caballeros” – he said with a slight nod, gripping his chair to maintain balance more than to get it out of the way. 

“Of course, Capitan” – Don Juan replied casually, waving him off and returning his focus to his conversation with the officers. Obviously, they had noticed that Salazar wasn’t himself, but the less they saw of it or thought about it, the better.

 

By the time Salazar came aloft he could scarcely decipher anything in the whirling chaos the world around him had turned into. His head was spinning violently and the sickening sensation didn’t stop even when he closed his eyes, on the contrary, it only got worse. Weakness and unbearable lassitude filled his entire body like lead and it took all of his strength and willpower to keep himself moving, gripping for whatever support he could.  
Finally, his buckling knees gave way and he felt himself fall onto the deck. He tried to get up, but his body was too weak to obey him. All he could do was stare at the mesmerizing dark sky above lit up brightly by the huge twinkling stars, that seemed to be going around in glorious diamond-like circles. Their pale glow everlasting and eternal, so remote and yet so close. He could feel them looking at him, winking at him, smiling at him comfortingly... His dear, mysterious lifelong friends, his guides and...

“Santa Maria!” - an unknown voice cried from somewhere afar. Salazar couldn’t guess the direction even if he wanted to. Then came the thumping sounds of hurried footsteps echoing all around him. All of a sudden he saw the face of a young man hovering and rocking over his own. 

“Capitan!” – the young man gasped, his big brown eyes blinking and wide with fear.  
– “Capitan! What’s wrong? Are you ill, sir?”

Salazar wanted to answer, but his tongue and throat had gone completely numb. A quiet groan was all he could manage to get out of his mouth.

“God Almighty, have mercy on us” – the young man whimpered.  
“Help! Someone!” – he cried out loudly. Too loudly for the captain’s inflamed, overly sensitive hearing.  
Immediately, the air was filled with echoing footsteps, a cacophony of loud whispers and distant cries, bright, flickering lights and an endless blur of rough, tanned faces that came and went and turned in circles all around him. Then, suddenly, his world went black.

When Salazar woke up, he found himself lying limply on the deck of the “Estrella Del Mar” in Lesaro’s arms with no idea of how or why he got there. Feeling weak and drowsy, he tried to get up, but his friend’s firm grip stopped him.

“Easy, Capitan. I’ve got you” – Salazar heard Lesaro say quietly, almost tenderly – “You just rest here easy”

“What happened?” – the Matador uttered, his voice completely alien. High – pitched, quiet and quivering, it sounded like it came from a distance.  
Deabrua! What’s the use of speaking like that, Salazar thought angrily, feeling completely mortified, embarrassed and humiliated by this spectacular show of his own powerlessness. As though lying helplessly on the deck, surrounded by the men who were supposed to look up to him and respect his authority wasn’t bad enough. He’d rather not say anything at all if this pathetic, whimpering tone was all that he could muster.

“You don’t remember?” – Lesaro asked him worriedly.

“I remember sitting at table with Cabrera and the rest of you… and then nothing until I woke up here” – Salazar replied after clearing his throat. His voice sounding a little better this time.

“It’s the curse” – whispered an unknown voice from somewhere behind him. Deep and husky and full of fear – “The Devil’s cursed him… The Triangle… No one is supposed to leave it alive…”

“Silence!” – Don Juan’s commanding voice rang out across the deck, quenching the superstitious, panicked murmurs – “There’s no such thing as the curse of the Triangle. There’s nothing magical about that place, it’s merely a natural phenomenon that most of you fools are too illiterate to comprehend. If anyone dares to repeat this superstitious nonsense out loud or even silently in his own mind, they will be punished severely. No one! I repeat, no one is to speak of this incident or the captain’s illness. On pain of death!”


	4. Sailor's Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay and thank you so much to everyone, who left reviews :)) Hope you enjoy the chapter and leave me some more comments :))

The dark red, viscous liquid of melted wax fell down lazily onto the paper in huge merging drops and was immediately molded by a small silvery seal into a beautiful picture of two lions and two towers crowned by a precious diadem that symbolized the highest power of the Spanish Empire. The ensign of the Spanish Royal Navy. An emblem that sailors’ wives, mothers, fathers and children loved, but always dreaded seeing, for it brought news of their loved ones’ new postings, new separations from them for goodness knows how long, new battles for them to fight for their King and Country or, worst of all, the news of their untimely deaths.  
Salazar sighed heavily as he lifted the captain’s seal from the toughened wax of the letter. For a moment he stared blankly at the small uneven dark red circle that, in the dim, twinkling light of candles, looked almost black and formed a morbidly beautiful contrast with the shadowy whiteness of the paper.  
Like a little drop of blood on the skin, the Matador noted absently as he placed the letter on top of a neat little pile of others. Eleven of them. Eleven down and only one more to go.  
Twelve little sheets of paper and eleven names, written down in naval records were all that was left of eleven good men, who, way before their time, found everlasting peace in the stormy sea.  
Yawning tiredly, Salazar stretched the stiff, sleeping muscles in his neck and back, then rubbed his left temple that was still smoldering with pain two days after the attack. With an effort, he shifted his burning, heavy eyes and looked longingly across the darkness of his cabin at a small, rectangular white spot in the corner – his pillow. Like a siren, it lured him with its dim and gentle glow and a sweet promise of a long and peaceful rest. But, much as he wanted to, Salazar couldn’t allow himself to sleep. He’d already wasted a good part of the last two days in bed, his inflamed mind flouncing between the salvatory senselessness of sleep and agonizing wakefulness and the world doesn’t stop for the ailing. The letters had to be written before they reach Havana and judging by Lesaro’s last report their small fleet would make port at dawn, which meant he only had a little over an hour left.  
It was a captain’s bleak and dismal duty to inform the families of his fallen crew members of the circumstances of their deaths and give the orders for pensions for their widows and children to be arranged. And Salazar always did his best to perform it to the best of his ability, as he did every other duty. No matter how many there were, all of the grief – bearing letters were written before his ship made port and ready to be sent out as soon as humanly possible. He was just as famous for orderliness and diligence as he was for courage and mastery and he’d be damned if he failed to deliver now.  
The last letter left to write, the one with the financial requests to the Admiralty was the longest, but by far the easiest part. The letters to the families were… more challenging.  
It’d taken Salazar years to develop and perfect the standard text he always wrote in such cases, but even now he wasn’t satisfied with it.  
Was there even such a thing as a good enough way to break the news that would shatter people’s lives and forever divide them into “before” and “after”, Salazar mused darkly.  
If there was, he never found it. Neither had anyone else he knew. Some of the captains preferred to write philosophical tirades about the shortness of life and greatness of heroism before they finally got to the point. For some strange reason Salazar could never comprehend, they believed those sermons somehow prepared people for the blow.  
Salazar chose a different style. His messages were always short and honest. He never went into too much detail or used pompous, pathetic words. Instead, he told the pure, simple truth and gave the exact amount of credit he felt was due. It was the way he’d heard his own sad, life-changing news. The way he would prefer to hear it, were it to be delivered again.  
But this time, his morbid duty was not just sad, but painful for the Matador to perform. Because this time, he was forced to lie. His men were not “killed in action” as he’d written in the letters. They were claimed by the sea in a strange storm in a mythical place he had no business leading them into. Seven sailors, three midshipmen, and the bosun were the cost of what the Admiral and others called a ‘brilliant taming of the ocean’, but to Salazar felt worse than the bitterest defeat.  
But very few in their right mind would believe that story without a good explanation, which he didn’t have and he couldn’t bring himself to insult the poor people reading his letters by throwing in an old sailor’s myth with the news of the deaths of their sons, fathers, and husbands. They would most likely think he was drunk when he wrote to them. And perhaps it would’ve been better if he were…

With a deep and sharp inhale Salazar threw the quill into the inkwell and then let out the air slowly as he reclined in his chair. Stiff and motionless, he stared blankly into the distance hardly noticing the flickering shadows of candlelight performing their intricate dance between light and darkness on the dark wooden floor, on the richly decorated walls of his cabin, on the polished surface of his desk and on the neat little pile of letters…  
How the hell did that happen? How on God’s earth did he come to find himself in this position? How was it even possible for him to make such a gormless and inconceivable mistake, Salazar asked himself for the hundredth time as, in his mind, he gazed intently upon the image of the ‘Silent Mary’ sailing into the God – cursed cave and listened to the sound of the pirate boy shouting from the crow’s nest. Pictures and sounds that seemed to be as dim and at the same time fresh as though they were reality a little more than a lifetime ago and produced a sickeningly agonizing feeling of guilt that pierced his soul like a cold, sharp, twisted knife.  
Of course, it wasn’t the first time Salazar had led his men to certain death. His reputation for courage boarding insanity was well founded, but there was a lot more method to his madness than most people knew or guessed. Every single one of his crazy plans for suicidal missions was thought out, weighed and laid carefully. And when they weren’t, the coolness of his mind combined with the heat of his blood allowed him to improvise, adapt and overcome in almost any situation. Salazar prided himself on being capable of braving and sacrificing anything for a chance of victory, but at the same time never asking anything more or less of his men than he was willing to give himself. He’d always been prepared to die for his King and the Empire and proud to want to win on their behalf. He was, first and foremost, a captain of the Spanish Royal Navy, for who service to his nation was the highest honor. Who did his best to be both humble and self - confident, to always keep his word, take care of his men and put his King and Country before everything else. It was mind-blowingly impossible to accept that even for a moment he could become a crazed, self – serving fool, driven by nothing, but ignorant and blind fury…  
And yet… the sad and ugly truth was… that is exactly what had happened. He’d allowed his ship to almost be lost and his brave, loyal men who served the Empire and the Crown faithfully, who fought by his side in countless battles, always followed his orders without a trace of doubt, who trusted him completely, loved him even to die for no good reason.  
Would he have ordered Moss to follow the pirate ship into the cave had he been his normal, calm and composed self, the Matador asked himself painfully. Would he still have taken that risk? In all honesty, he couldn’t say. He didn’t know. But even if he would have, that choice would’ve been made in name of King and Country. Instead, his men were forced to die for nothing but their captain’s blind stupidity. Because he couldn’t handle a whippersnapper of a pirate hitting a raw nerve. So raw, it caused Salazar to literally lose his mind and, for the first time in his entire military career, make a decision based on pure blind personal weakness. A weakness that’d lurked in the darkest and remotest corners of his heart and mind for almost as long as he could remember.  
The captain’s soul exploded with painful guilt as he closed his eyes and heard a crusty, yet gentle whisper deep within his heart. A voice that has been nearest and dearest to him ever since he was a child

“Your father was a weak and small-minded fool of a man, who betrayed his blood, heritage, and family. He was a failure and an embarrassment” – it told him as it had done countless times before - “But you won’t be, Arman. You won’t be. This I swear to God and to the Blessed Virgin by the souls of all our ancestors. You will grow up as a man and a Basque sailor should. Like your grandfather and his grandfather and his grandfather before, you will sail underneath blue skies, on a proud ship, with the waves crashing into it. You will lead strong, proud people, for who service to others is the highest honor, who live and breathe for a flag of red and gold. And no matter what happens to you, you’ll never give up. It’s in your blood.”

But then, the old, rusty voice faded making way for an image that for countless years had haunted many of Salazar’s dreams and waking moments.  
A blowing breeze was flapping the red – and- gold and black – and - white standards of two brigs floating board to board on slightly choppy waters. The sea was playfully calm and the air was clean and silent. There was no smoke, no sound of exploding gunpowder or clashing iron, no battle cries and no groans of the wounded. Instead, an entire crew of honest sailors was silently down on their knees, shackled, pistols and blades pointing threateningly at their throats. A young man was kneeling abjectly and placing his sword at the feet of a pirate captain, surrounded by his crew of miscreants. The pirates were all blurred into a mob of filthy, loud men in filthy, tattered clothing, laughing and shouting out things Salazar couldn’t understand. They were irrelevant, a mere entourage. Their captain, on the other hand, wasn’t someone you’d call your average buccaneer. He was a pirate lord and his appearance fully reflected that position. A rather large man with tangled shoulder-length ash-blonde hair, blue eyes, and a sparse, wiry beard, he was well dressed in a light - black coat with dozens of silver buttons lining the front and cuffs over another, a brown buttoned-up waistcoat lined with light yellow and a clean, but rather faded white shirt, the collar of which was folded over the collars of both coats. A gold sash was visible under his wide black belt. Its end fell down to his knees making a rather elegant contrast to his black trousers and dark brown boots. A small medallion was hanging from his neck and over his left shoulder, he wore a brown belt decorated with many silver ornaments which held the holster for a pistol at his right hip. A basket-handled rapier was buckled to his left. His hands were adorned with several rings, one of them shaped like a cobra. A brown, fingerless glove covered the palm of his left hand. An extravagant black hat with a large black feather sticking out of it crowned his head. 

“You wish to surrender without a fight, Capitan?” – chuckled the pirate’s husky voice. He spoke Spanish with a weird accent that sounded similar to English, but not quite.

“Do you not value your hard – earned gold or do you spanish scum simply lack the cojones to fight us?” – he continued mockingly, looking down at the kneeling young man, whose figure was blurred and face invisible to Salazar’s imagination.

“I value gold, señor” – the captain replied in a quiet echoing whisper – “But I value life much more. You agreed to let us live if I surrender to you”

“Aye, that I did… But this is the first time I’ve ever seen a Spanish captain who was prepared to kneel to a pirate so quickly and willingly. What about your famous Spanish honor?” – the pirate rasped mockingly – “You value it so little, you’re prepared to surrender it without a fight?”

“Money is a merchant’s honor” – the young captain replied – “Both are easy to lose and hard to gain, but not irrevocable. Death, however, is final”

“Spoken like a true gentleman of fortune, Capitan...” – the pirate laughed – “What’s your name again?”

“Antonio Salazar, sir”

“Salazar, eh? Well, Capitan Salazar, unfortunately, I happen to agree with you” – the pirate captain replied cryptically – “And I never accept anything less than everything”

With that, the pirate drew his sword and cut the spanish captain’s throat with one single awesome motion. The rest of the pirates cheered and whistled their approval.

“To the depth with the rest of them” – the captain rasped with a cruel smile – “Leave one alive”

“What for?” – one of his crewmen asked.

“To tell the tale”

His father truly was a fool and an embarrassment, the Matador thought bitterly as he opened his eyes. But was he really any better? Or rather… was he even worse, Salazar wondered as black, bitter rage, deep grief and paralyzing guilt flooded his soul, burning him inside out and torturing him with pain worse than even hemicrania. Which was the greater crime? Killing your men through cowardice or forcing them to brave death through weakness? Dishonoring the flag because you didn't want to die or as good as committing treason to it because you couldn’t handle being reminded of your father’s past? What would his dear Silent Mary say about him if she had lived to know of his own failure? Would she disown him for making such a flagitious, unpardonable mistake as she did his father? Perhaps… and perhaps not… but either way… he deserved it.  
Salazar cursed silently as he felt a known and familiar terror starting to wrap itself around his heart like a poulpe, squeezing it slowly with its cold, slimy tentacles. Since he was a child of seven years old his greatest fear was being a weakling coward like his father. But… did he actually turn out worse? Should his greatest fear be becoming a selfish, crazed and vile creature who knows no convictions except his own vanity? Becoming like... a pirate? An inhuman creature Capitan Salazar despised with every fiber of his being. Not just because of family history. He detested everything that pirates and piracy stood for – the choice to live without law and order with the strong preying upon the weak simply because they can. To be senseless, cruel savages, whose sole life purpose was raiding and pillaging just for the sake of a few passing pleasures that inevitably lead to more raiding and pillaging. The choice to kill better men to steal what they had earned through hard work and honesty, waste the livelihood of their wives and children and call it freedom. These creatures were not men. They weren’t even animals… Any man with a God – given soul and a drop of red blood in his veins would rather die than be one of them.

Little droplets of dark blue ink flew out of the inkwell and landed all over the immaculate surface of the massive oak desk as Salazar pushed his quill and paper away angrily and got up from the large, beautifully carved chair. Slowly he walked towards the transparent glassy gallery of giant windows that formed the stern wall of the captain’s quarters and pushed one of the window leafs open. The newborn crescent moon had already left the light – blue sky and first light was already beginning to paint its vast canvas in numerous bright shades of pink and yellow. Leaning on the strong, but delicate iron frame the captain breathed in the fresh and fragrant breeze that blew in from the south-east, bringing with it a mixture of salt, sand, and smoke, mixed with a whiff of spice, hibiscus, and mariposa - the smell of Havana. Leasro’s calculations had, unsurprisingly, been correct. Havana was only about an hour away.  
For a while Salazar stood motionless in front of the open window, letting the freshness of the early morning ruffle his loose hair, caress his skin under the light cotton of his shirt and listening to the splashing of the sea below the keel. Slowly, the quiet and serenity of the early morning somewhat calmed down his flouncing, inflamed mind. 

Maybe he truly was cursed by the Devil, Salazar thought with a sad little smirk as he felt the cool, salty air fill his lungs as deeply as the icy waters of the Triangle. Maybe the Devil’s real curse was forcing men to look into the mirror of truth to find out and face what they were truly like. That’s why that curse can never be lifted. No one can ever be the same after confronting what at first seems like their evil counterpart and realizing that in fact, that is no opposite and not even an evil twin.

So, this is what the ugly truth about Kapitainak Arman De Salazar looks like, El Matador told himself bitterly as he gazed upon the splashing water as though trying to see his new, deformed reflexion within the dark depth of the ocean as he decided to take on another, far greater challenge that the Enemy of Mankind offered him.  
This is what happens to a man when he forgets that, as old Padre Sebastian eloquently put it, 'amongst us, mortal men, beauty and vice, virtue and ugliness are entwined and united, hence no soul can be too careful'. That the fine line between sin and righteousness is far too easily crossed, yet the way back is never easily found.  
However… wasn't that the whole point of the perpetual state of trial here on Earth, Salazar asked himself searchingly. Did that ugly, malicious side that every human born in sin had really matter, as long as a man chose the right path, albeit through trial and error? Isn’t that the reason why God gave men the right to choose in the first place? Why He judges a man by his actions and is prepared to forgive anyone who seeks his mercy?  
Suddenly, the captain felt a huge weight drop from his chest as the warm, welcome ray of hope dispelled the gloomy darkness in his mind.  
With the grace of God and the strength of his own soul, he realized, if faced with Deabrua he’d win again. He'd win every single time as long as he chooses to sail into the storm rather than stay inside the deceitful safety of the Devil's Cave and be buried when its walls come down. As long as he chooses to look into the Devil’s mirror and learn from the ugliness of truth instead of hiding from it and blaming his own failures on fate, God, Devil, circumstances or the little pirate.

Salazar smiled as he took a deep and sharp inhale of the cool, spicy air and then let out it out slowly. A sigh of deep relief brought by his newfound clarity of mind.  
Of course, he was responsible for the deaths of his men. It was all his fault they ended up in the Triangle and he was truly sorry, but that was a mistake, not a deliberate choice on his part. Of course, it was humiliating and heartbreaking to have allowed his pain and weakness to take over, but that was an accident waiting to happen ever since he swore to eliminate piracy to make amends for his father's ignominy rather than for the glory of God and King and Empire…In truth, he’d been cursed long before he ever set eyes on the goddamned Devil’s Triangle and only now, with the help of the Devil was he able to see it…  
He would and had to learn from this, the captain told himself, closing his eyes and leaning into the early morning breeze, allowing himself to enjoy the magnificence of eternal peace that covered the world briefly before dawn came.  
He would learn from this most painful and unpardonable experience and never ever allow it to happen again, or his name wasn’t Arman Salazar.  
And he would rid the world of piracy in the name of God and Empire and of all that was good in this world, Salazar promised silently, crossing himself as he uttered the first sincere prayer in many years. At least he would try to

The Matador almost jumped with fright as he was suddenly brought back to earth by a hurried knock on the door.

“Come in” – he replied hoarsely after clearing his throat 

“Capitan?”- Raul, the cabin boy uttered quietly and rather fearfully as he poked his head through the heavy door, not sure whether he’d really heard the captain. No one except Teniente Lesaro was allowed to come in for two whole days and he’d never want to face his captain’s wroth. 

“Yes?” – Salazar asked turning away from the window, fixing his intense gaze on the half – shadowy figure of the small, skinny youth.

“Forgive the intrusion, mi Capitan” – the boy said meekly as he slipped into the room – “Teniente Magda told me to wake you as we’ll be making port soon”

“Yes, I’m well aware of that” – Salazar nodded – “Tell Magda he can go down to take a breather. I’ll be aloft shortly to take the rest of his watch”

“Aye sir” – Raul said with a well-practiced nod – “El Teniente also asked to remind you that El Almirante is waiting for your decision regarding the prisoner”

“Ah! The pirate. I forgot about him” – Salazar replied, as the right corner of his lips twisted into a devious little smirk. In an unusual show of friendship, Don Cabrera’d decided to let Salazar determine the surviving pirate’s fate, seeing as he was the one to defeat the ‘Brotherhood’ – “Tell Magda to send a message to Don Juan. I want the prisoner released. This time, I want to leave one man alive to tell the tale”


End file.
